


ready to go (get me out of my mind)

by violentdarlings



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Manon Blackbeak is just too cute, Manon and Elide have a complicated relationship, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, post eos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8555089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: AU in which post-EoS Elide and the Thirteen go off together in search of allies.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Universe belongs to Sarah J. Maas. Title from Ready to Go by Panic! at the Disco.

Elide wakes to Manon’s hand on her shoulder, the iron of the witch’s nails nipping at her skin, and could tear out her hair from frustration. She sits up, Manon’s hand falling away, and shakes her hair back. “What time is it?” she asks.

“Three hours before dawn,” Manon replies, her voice neutral. “You were having a nightmare.” Elide scoffs.

“After a fashion.” She looks around their campsite, the humped shadows of the others at sleep. “You have just come from sentry duty.” Manon nods.

“Asterin has taken my place.” Indeed, the golden-haired witch’s bedroll has been folded neatly away, and Asterin herself is nowhere to be seen. “Of what did you dream?” Elide looks back at Manon and dredges up a glare.

“That’s an awfully personal question you’re asking there, Wing Leader.” A faint smile curves Manon’s mouth, and even knowing what she is, the blood on those pale hands, Elide can only find beauty and sly mirth in it.

“I did not mean to offend,” Manon replies soberly, but her eyes are dancing. “Far be it from me to pry. I merely thought to offer some comfort, in these long hours before dawn.” Elide looks away. _Comfort_ is too keen a word, with the aftereffects of the dream still shuddering in her.

“It was not a nightmare,” she says, looking at the trees that ring the grove they have set up camp within. “I was not sad to dream it. Only to wake, and find it untrue.” Manon draws in a sharp breath, but when Elide looks at her, the witch’s face is still, as unreadable as the moon.

“Then I erred, in stirring you,” she says, and now her face shows emotion; she looks, for a moment, genuinely remorseful. Elide places a hand on the witch’s arm.

“You did not,” she tells the other female. “I was already awake before you touched me. Do not think on it a moment more.”

“Very well,” Manon relents. “It was… a pleasant dream, then?” Elide sighs.

“Exceptionally so.” Lorcan’s hands like flame sweeping over her skin, his weight heavy and settled between Elide’s thighs, those night-dark eyes as inescapable as her own heart –

Manon makes an odd, aborted movement beside her. “I see,” she says, and there is something the matter with her voice; it is uneven, as though stirred. “One of those dreams.”

“Do witches not have them?” Elide asks without thinking, and then gasps. “How did you know?” Manon’s nostrils flare, as if drinking down the air.

“Scent,” Manon murmurs, and Elide presses her thighs closer together, aware of the dampness between them. “A witch’s senses are far more acute than a human’s, as well you know.”

“Indeed,” Elide replies, flushing. “Forgive me, Manon. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.” But to her surprise, the other female is smiling.

“You are so young,” she says affectionately. “So easily roused to passion, be it fury or despair or desire.” Elide resists the childish urge to stamp her good foot; it would hardly serve to belie Manon’s point.

“You were young once,” she says stubbornly. “What were you like?” Manon sighs.

“I do not like to think of it,” she admits, and Elide curses herself. Always putting her foot in it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and the witch’s golden eyes jump to her own. “I shouldn’t pry.” Manon shrugs; it is an eerily human gesture, from a being so far from human.

“Oddly enough, I find I can tolerate such questions, when they come from you,” she replies. “I can tell you much I would otherwise be unable to voice.” Elide looks down, her ears burning.

“I am very honoured, Manon,” she tells the witch, and a cool hand touches her chin, lifts her face. Elide lets her eyes close for a moment under the weight of that fleeting caress.

“Your dreams have left you wanting,” Manon says, her voice like silk. “Allow me to ease you.” Elide’s eyes pop open.

“Ease me?” She wriggles back in surprise. Manon is folding open her bedroll, and the length of the witch is pressed against her, cool from the night air, Manon’s leathers against Elide’s shirt. And Manon, gods, is unlacing the front of Elide’s breeches.

“You must not be so loud,” Manon murmurs into her ear. “It would not do to wake the others.”

“It would not do to stick your hand down my trousers!” Elide hisses back, and then finds she has no more words. Manon’s fingers, iron nails mercifully sheathed, are inside her underclothes, brushing up against her, still wet from Lorcan and the dream.

“There,” Manon says, her breath against Elide’s ear. “There you are.”

“There I am,” Elide manages, because those fingers, so skilful at war and brutality, are fluttering over her, easing inside of her, and Manon is so very, very good at this.

“This is common, against my kind,” Manon informs her, adding a second finger along with the first. Elide bites her lip to quiet a moan, and contents herself with a raised eyebrow she hopes she conveys disbelief. “It is true,” Manon continues. “It is not always easy to find men to amuse ourselves with, and witches have needs.”

“So do human girls,” Elide replies, and arches her hips against Manon’s fingers. “Manon, you tease, are you going to make me beg for it?” Manon’s eyes are bright.

“Maybe next time,” she considers, and before Elide’s brain can snag on those words, _next time,_ Manon has twisted her fingers inside of her and brought her thumb to bear on that bundle of nerves that makes Elide’s whole body, even her mangled ankle and damaged heart, _sing_.

When Elide feels as if she can breathe again, when Manon sees fit to withdraw her hand and make as if to roll away, Elide seizes her in a bear hug and doesn’t let go. Manon is stiff within her embrace, as if giving a comrade _a hand_ is acceptable but showing actual affection afterwards is bizarre and wrong. “You’re strange, Manon,” she says, and the witch shrugs.

“I have been told as much,” she replies, and Elide shifts, keeping one hand around Manon’s shoulders and freeing up the other. Manon flinches. “I do not expect – you should not –”

“Course I should,” Elide snaps, and shoves her hand down the front of Manon’s flying leathers, all too aware Manon could kill her in an instant should these attentions prove unwelcome. But she worried for naught; Manon is soaked and slippery, as though just getting Elide off brought her almost to the brink. The thought is not unwelcome, and Elide files it away for another night where she is alone and in need of something pretty to think of. She fits her spare hand to the curve of Manon’s breast, and can tell Manon can feel it, even through the leathers; the witch shudders, and a flood of new wetness trickles over Elide’s hand.

“Good,” Elide praises her lowly, barely aware of the word, barely aware of _breathing_. “Come on, Manon girl, you can do it.”

Manon bites down on her own forearm, and comes.

Elide waits until Manon has stopped shaking before extracting her hand and wiping it carelessly on the outside of the bedroll. “You have a king,” she says quietly. Manon flips abruptly so her back is to Elide’s chest, a withdrawal if Elide has ever seen one. Yet she is bizarrely touched, that Manon is comfortable enough with her to turn her back.

“You have a Fae warrior,” the witch replies. Elide grits her teeth.

“He’s not mine.”

“And Dorian understands who I am. _What_ I am,” Manon emphasises. Elide dares to rest her head against Manon’s shoulder. Her ache soothed, she can feel herself falling into sleep.

“What are you?” she asks tiredly. Manon snorts.

 “Go the fuck to sleep.”

“Fair enough,” Elide agrees blithely, and throws an arm over Manon just to irk her. Yet when she wakes after dawn, the witch is still there, curled into Elide’s embrace like she belongs there.

Like Manon likes it. It’s all too much to think about so early.

Elide rises, and begins the day.


End file.
